Constant
by Apalapucian
Summary: The sharp glint in her eyes melted his arrogance and solidified his resolve; her name on his lips shook her consciousness awake and smothered her fears. Once upon a retribution, in a dim, dusty broom cupboard with his ragged breaths and her tinkling laugh, they finally meet halfway. JPLE one-shot.


**A/N:** _Hello! This is a birthday present for Morgan, who turns twenty-one today (Happy birthday, bubs! Love you!). I wanted to publish it today to be punctual for once, so I haven't thoroughly edited it yet, but I figured it was decent enough (Oh Godric I just hope it is) to put up and be on time. Happy reading! x_

* * *

Everything about her was a paradox.

From her red hair and her green eyes, to the way her perfect little mouth connived with her voice to make the foul words and the witty insults (all directed in his general direction) ridiculously excusable.

She was impossible. She was a towering lighthouse refusing to cave in and he was a tornado gradually dying around it, and the frustration was sometimes almost too much to bear. There was no use when she was placed strategically in the center of it all by some higher power (whose presence James had long begrudgingly acknowledged); she stood stubborn and upright and annoyingly unfazed in the eye of the wreck he was born to unleash.

The sharp glint in her eyes melted his arrogance and solidified his resolve every time. It was a funny feeling, being shot down again and again and still finding it in himself to feel hopeful; to get that smirk wiped off from his face, only to return seconds later, more devious and more optimistic than ever as he watches her walk away from him—bouquet of lilies still in hand and the umpteenth rejection still ringing in his ears. By then it already felt just like a sip of a newly discovered, hard alcohol from his father's liquor cabinet. Bitter taste in his tongue. Burns a bit. Nothing a big boy couldn't handle.

Her sure, poised gait made him want to bolt and never come back, because he knew—he didn't know why he was so certain but he was—that something about her could potentially break him, shake his whole façade and lay his soul bare for all the world to see. Everything about her shook the warning bells alive in his head, and he should just leave it, he knew he should. But the sound of her footsteps, the sight of her walking away—it made him want more. It made him want to chase, for he was unfortunately (or fortunately?) the type of person who wouldn't pass up the chance to face precisely that which was capable of shattering him.

He was _drawn_.

James Potter was drawn to Lily Evans like he was drawn to nothing (no one) else.

* * *

"Soddin' door—"

"Look, just let it g—"

But whatever she was supposed to say was drowned in the resounding thud of James's body slamming against the door as he hurled himself upon it for the third time. The metal lock rattled—which Lily didn't notice because she was too preoccupied warily watching him—but otherwise they were still very much trapped in a broom cupboard somewhere on the fifth floor.

James groaned in frustration. He slumped down against the wall opposite, his jaw taut and his fingers raking through his already disheveled hair. Lily, who was standing in a corner, could barely make him out in the dark, but she nonetheless still watched him take deep, slow breaths to compose himself. Dust swirled around them, illuminated by what scant amount of light his specs could reflect.

Lily took the space beside him and deliberated on putting a hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry," James muttered before she could decide.

"For what?"

"For landing us here."

"It's not your fault."

"If I didn't lose my temper the other day..."

"They were being pricks, it's understandable."

"...and didn't dock all those points..."

"I would've taken all the damn points away if you hadn't beaten me to it."

He turned to her with a frown. "I should just have punched him," he insisted. "No points, no headboyship, no _nonsense_. The bloody prat wouldn't have rounded his cronies up for all this. I should just have knocked the living wits out of him the other day, and he would just have gone for me _alone_."

"Maybe."

He caught her tone. "What?"

"Oh, come on," scoffed Lily. "You think I'm here because I'm Head Girl? You _actually _think I'm locked in here because of those points?"

James didn't answer, but she could tell he was upset.

"It's not your fault," she reminded him softly.

"Well, it bloody well isn't yours either," he said, an edge to his voice. "None of it ever is."

"I know."

He let out a heavy sigh. "Padfoot and the others will figure out soon enough," he assured her. "They'll come for us."

Lily nodded. "If it's anything, I'm sort of relieved it's you I'm stuck with."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

"Oh," he mumbled lamely. "Right. Thanks..."

She let out a sound between a sigh and a chuckle. "You sound skeptical."

"That's probably because I never really took you for someone who's very fond of me."

Lily rolled her eyes. "I never _hated_ you, James."

"Could've fooled me, Evans."

"I never did. But even then..." she bit her lip in thought, cocking her head to one side. James thought her hair smelled rather nice, and that a fraction more and her head would be resting on his shoulder, but he forced himself to remain still. "Even then I think I'd still prefer to be stuck with you over anyone."

He had learned over time not to read into things when it came to her, but he couldn't help it. "Why?"

"Because I didn't like you."

_Of course_. "And you like me now?"

She paused. "Not the point."

He laughed. It made his head spin, and his hand came up to massage his forehead. "What's the point then?"

"The point is, if I was stuck with someone I don't like, time would fly faster."

"It would?" He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall.

"Yeah. I'd be occupied enough trying to get inside your head. Figuring you out. Making myself not hate you."

He reckoned he would never tell her how he'd been trying to do just that with her for a long time now, although a part of him wished she knew. "Typical," he commented. "It doesn't sound fun."

"It's not _supposed_ to be fun," explained Lily. "It's supposed to make me tolerate you, at the very least. And busy, I suppose. Make something productive out of the time."

"Yes, well..." It was becoming a bit hard to breathe, he noticed, and his fingers closed into tight fists as he struggled to keep his voice upbeat. "I'm—what was it? Relieved, did you say?—I'm glad it's you here with me, too."

Quite glad, yes.

He opened his eyes and stole a glance at her. It was hard to discern her face in the lighting and without moving his head, but he thought he saw her lips upturn.

They were silent for a while. (James thought it wasn't so bad, it wasn't bad at all, being stuck in a dim room with Lily Evans by his side.)

"Hey, Lily." She made a non-committal noise to acknowledge she'd heard. "You okay?"

"I am, yeah. You?"

He felt exceptionally tired, truth be told, and his limbs were starting to feel cramped and sluggish. "Peachy," he said. "Listen, I'm really—"

"Shut it, Potter."

He could almost _hear _an eye-roll there somewhere. "I just feel like I should...take responsibility."

"I know you do."

He frowned. "Really?"

Lily sighed, shifting her position on the floor. She eyed him curiously. "You have this hero thing."

His eyes narrowed in the dark. "What?"

"You have a hero thing going on," she said again, clearer this time. "You have this...you have a _complex_, if you will."

"A complex," he deadpanned, dreading where she might be going with this.

"Yes. A hero complex. You like...I don't know, you like _participating_. Being out there. You act like everyone's under your care. You take responsibility for things that no one can _easily_ be held responsible for. You like saving people."

"And what, that's something bad?" he asked, his temper stirred.

"No! No, I'm not saying that," she cleared. "I suppose it's not. But sometimes...sometimes things happen, Potter. They just do. And you don't have to own up to every single bad thing just because no one would."

He was going to answer with an astute comeback to that, he really was, but his brain had decided to be a brat and it wouldn't equip him with any. He settled for pointed silence, therefore, and focused instead on willing himself to stay upright—for all this time he was slowly slumping further down the floor and his head kept hanging down. The room was still spinning, breaths were difficult to come by, and it was as if the temperature in the room had dropped considerably. He crossed his arms to warm his chest and slid down as inconspicuously as he could, trying to find a position that would maybe stop his head throbbing. He had to fight the urge to swear. He figured this was either because one of the drasted Slytherins' spells had hit him earlier after all, or that showering immediately after a gruelling Quidditch practice last night—in an attempt to be punctual to a sodding Head meeting, no less—hadn't been a very good idea.

"Alright, Potter?" Lily asked at length, bemused by his silence. It didn't escape him that it was the first time _she _got to ask him that, and it brought a fond, reminiscent expression on his face.

"I don't have a hero thing." He hadn't meant to say it. Or to make it sound as petulant as it just did.

She laughed, and James thought it was the most fucking beautiful sound in the world. "Alright, you don't," she conceded. "Are you sure you're alright?"

When he didn't answer, she shifted herself to properly look at him.

"You're hot."

He couldn't help it—he smirked. "I know."

"No, you nutter. I mean..." She leaned in to press the back of her hand against his neck, and his eyes fluttered close when she moved to feel his forehead. "S'what I thought. Your left side's _burning_."

"I'm _fine_."

"Are you cold?"

"Perfectly fine, Evans."

She looked at him in concern, and he couldn't meet her eyes. "Merlin, you're such a child," she muttered. She began removing her school robe, and James, being the child that she claimed he was, raised an eyebrow suggestively at her and grinned. She rolled her eyes and ignored him, draping the thick, black fabric over him. Now he just _felt _petulant, but he couldn't bring himself to refuse it. (The goddarn thing smelled like her.)

"Told you I'm alright, didn't I?"

"The words I'm looking for are 'thank you', actually," she retorted, settling back down beside him. "How do you feel, really?"

"Fine," he insisted stubbornly. "But yeah—thanks."

"No problem."

"You're not cold?"

"No."

"Lily?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

She was silent. Not even an exaggerated sigh this time, and he couldn't blame her.

"I just..." he tried again, afraid he might lose his guts on a later attempt to say it. He could feel himself slowly getting sucked into sleep, exhaustion and vertigo driving him into it, and he just _had_ to say it before he pathetically passed out on her. "I want to save _you._"

"What?" Lily whispered, craning her neck to look at him.

"Things happen. I know that," he pressed on, "but they shouldn't have to happen to you. Not if I can help it."

"James..."

"Maybe I just want to be your...maybe I just want to be right for you." He wasn't even sure now if he was saying these things aloud—or if he ought to be saying them at all. "Maybe I just became that—a bloody hero or whatever—maybe I just turned into some attention-seeking knight to others because I can't...because you won't let me be yours."

He didn't get to hear what she had to say to that, whatever it was. He wasn't sure if she even _had _something to say.

(He thought he felt her hand find his, though—warm, nimble fingers closing around his own—before the world was lost and he let the heaviness take over.)

* * *

Everything about him was a paradox.

From his perpetually tousled hair and his perfectly measured gait, to the way his hazel eyes would harden and make that smug, annoying smirk (which should have always been a reminder that he never truly cared about it all) less believable.

He was _impossible_. He was a staggering tide threatening to overcome all emptied spaces in her heart, and the confusion his name brought about was sometimes too much to even ponder on. It didn't help her figuring things out that he was placed strategically in her life by some higher power Lily had always believed to have long drawn plans for everything—plans which, she was now only beginning to realize, somehow seemed to revolve chiefly and unavoidably around the boy with spectacles and crooked smile.

Her name on his lips shook her consciousness awake and smothered her fears. It was a funny feeling, finally realizing that she had now inevitably associated his presence with home—that right here with him in this locked broom cupboard was a piece of forever she could rightfully own—after convincing herself for a long time of the unhealthy solicitude that his presence supposedly influenced. He had no idea, of course, of the countless times she had calmed her heart and held back her smile as she walked away—the smell of lilies lingering in her hair and his voice echoing in her ears. In those times, try as she could to deny it, it already felt like a good bottle of alcohol settling steadily in her veins. Her mind in blissful silence. Pleasant warmth tumbling down her spine. Nothing she had ever felt before.

His loud, carefree laugh made her want to stay and never leave, because she knew—she didn't know how but she just did—that something about this boy could potentially make her whole once more, put the pieces back together and make sure the world didn't try to break her again. Everything about him rattled her existence alive, and in truth she was scared of it, of feeling that much. But the sound of his steady breaths now as he slept, the feel of his calloused fingers against hers—it made her want more. It made her want to stop running for once, find a constant point in space and time next to him, and give him the chance that he, for all his many faults and ridiculous antics, had somehow earned.

She was _drawn_.

Lily Evans was drawn to James Potter like she was drawn to nothing (no one) else.

* * *

**A/N:** _Comments? __Not my best, but there you go. There is a slight allusion in here to OOTP, when Hermione called Harry out on his tendency to play hero sometimes. I thought it would be interesting to make something out of that. Anyway, happy birthday, Morgan! :)_


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